Growing up, my family situation was confusing—my dad lived two floors above us with Rachel, my godmother, while I lived with my mom.
I was told I’d “understand when I’m older.” As a child, I didn’t question it, but that changed when
a friend asked why my dad lived with another woman. I began to resent Rachel, thinking she stood between my parents.
Years later, while helping Rachel during an illness, I found a marriage certificate—dated 1988. I was born in 1995.
The truth hit me: Rachel was my dad’s wife. My mom had been the other woman. When I confronted my dad,
he admitted everything. Rachel had once left him—but later chose to return and love me, even though she didn’t have to.
When Rachel walked in during that conversation, I embraced her. I finally understood her quiet strength and unconditional love.
My family isn’t traditional, but it’s built on forgiveness. I now see both women as the ones who raised me—and I feel incredibly lucky for that.
